


Nighttime Resonance

by Boeshane42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boeshane42/pseuds/Boeshane42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John picks up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nighttime Resonance

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Gratuitous Sherlock!whump, implied torture and some other stuff which in my opinion doesn’t warrant a **rape/non-con** warning but others may disagree so here it is. You’re going to have an “are we really going there…?” moment. Rest assured – we’re going there. If you dislike the destination jump off the train in time. 
> 
> A big hug to my kickass beta nanfreak who laughs off my insanity while everyone else runs away in fear.

 

 ***

 

It begins with a text, as things often do these days in John’s life.

Then a crime scene, a chase, and a deduction leading Sherlock and him into a civilian research facility. The prototype, termed “Unilinx Board”, is a simple rectangle, one inch over two inches, soldered with an array of chips and microcircuits and meant to act as a guidance system for weather satellites.

Naturally the man who’s after it intends to use the board for something considerably more malevolent. They know who he is; Raul Gould has been on the MI-5 radar for some time now, but tracking him down proves to be another matter altogether.

Sherlock comes up with a way to lure Gould out, make him come to them. When John points out that should the brilliant scheme fail an international terrorist would get his hands on a potentially game-changing piece of technology, Sherlock grins at him and picks up a blow torch.

The designer of the Unilinx board is less than thrilled when he discovers that his creation has been reduced to a melded, distorted plate of metal and silicone, and Sherlock’s fake sincerity as he explains it’s been destroyed in the name of national security fails to make an impression.

Fortunately Sherlock’s plan is unaffected by them being thrown out of the facility. Sherlock floats out the information that he’s in possession of the board, arranges a bogus meeting in a decommission train station, and entrusts John with the mission of fetching Lestrade and showing up at the right moment.

It’s then that things take a turn for the worse. As the Met swarm the station it quickly becomes clear that Gould isn’t in attendance and neither is Sherlock. Sherlock’s phone is not only unavailable but off the grid entirely, suggesting the battery had been taken out. It’s not impossible that this is simply Sherlock deviating from the plan – a fairly common occurrence where Sherlock is concerned, but John’s gut feeling tells him this isn’t the case here – that something has gone very, very wrong.

Twelve hours later, perhaps the most distressing twelve hours John’s had the misfortune of living through, the call from Mycroft finally arrives.

 

***    

 

The sound of gunfire coming from the warehouse is deafening. It goes on for what feels to John like hours, but must be closer to minutes.

Finally, a lull.

Someone from Mycroft’s tactical team calls out an “all clear!” and John stands up from where he’s crouched behind a police car.

Next to him, Lestrade stands up as well. The DI signals to his men before turning to John. “Our guys should go in first, do a sweep—“

“Right, yes, absolutely – do that,” John cuts him off and heads straight to the warehouse.

“John!”

He ignores Lestrade’s call and steps inside, surveys the scene. Three of Gould’s goons are lying dead at the foot of the stairs. Two members of the tactical team are leading Gould out, his hands tied behind his back.

Another team member nods to John and points upstairs. The lack of urgency in the man’s demeanor can mean either good news, or very bad ones, but nothing in his blank expression offers John any hints. He takes the stairs up two at a time, trying to concentrate on breathing, putting one foot in front of the other.

God, let Sherlock still be alive and in one piece.

Heart in his throat, John heads to the back room on the second floor.

As he’s a few feet from the doorway a familiar voice causes him to stagger.

“It took you fifteen minutes less than I anticipated to find this location. As much as I’d like to believe this is due to my good influence on your deductive skills, Mycroft’s involvement is the likelier explanation.”

John’s breath leaves him in a rush and he sways for a moment, dizzy with relief, before stepping into the room. He’s about to clarify that it was Lestrade who phoned Mycroft, not him, when his eyes fall on Sherlock.

His flatmate is leaning casually with one shoulder against the wall, buttoning up his shirt.

There’s something… off.

It’s nothing obvious, but John knows Sherlock well enough by now to pick up on it. Sherlock’s stance isn’t quite right – as if he’s aiming for bored nonchalance but is trying a little too hard.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says quickly, not looking at him. “Gould still alive?”

Sherlock’s fingers are shaking as he does up the last two buttons of his shirt.

John surveys the room. He’s not nearly as good as Sherlock is at piecing events together from scattered evidence, but then he hardly needs to be, when the evidence include a discarded whip and a floor splattered with dark-red flecks.

A cold, hollow sensation of dread settles in the general vicinity of his diaphragm as he returns his attention to Sherlock, takes a closer look. Behind the tails of the shirt John can see that Sherlock’s belt is unbuckled and the top button on his trousers is missing.

And Sherlock is still not _looking_ at him.

John finally finds his voice. “Did he…?”

“Five foot snake whip, sixteen plait, vegetable tanned kangaroo hide with a leather core. Not surprising when you consider a man like Raul Gould; everything from his gold cufflinks to his boring haircut suggests his fondness for the classics. Of course, as torture goes, whips are horribly florid and unimaginative. I was overcome by a wave of nostalgia halfway through, for Boris Kirschnoff and his assorted set of needle-nose pliers.”

John shakes his head, decisively _not_ thinking back to their last year encounter with Kirschnoff, a psychotic arms dealer (it took three months for all their toenails to grow back), and refocuses on the matter at hand.

“Christ, Sherlock, let me see…”

He comes closer but stops as Sherlock turns his back to the wall and finally looks up at him. “Don’t,” he snaps. “It’s fine.”

John stares at Sherlock’s face, his ashen pallor and red-rimmed eyes. “There’s…” He pauses, clears his throat. “Ambulance, right outside.”

“It’s minor, John. No need for hospital.” Sherlock looks away again, tucks his shirt in and buckles his belt.

“You’re bleeding. At least let the paramedics have a look at you.”  John turns as Sherlock walks past him, watches as he bends down gingerly to pick up his jacket. Sherlock’s shirt is a dark purple but John can still see the spots where it sticks to his back with fresh blood.  

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock dismisses as he shrugs into the jacket stiffly.

“Sherlock—“

“I said no!”  

Sherlock stills, mouth snapping shut abruptly, as if startled by his own outburst.

John gapes at him, looking for hints, anything in Sherlock’s expression that would give him insight into what he’s thinking, but Sherlock looks away before he can glean anything worthwhile.

When Sherlock speaks again it sounds like he’s making an effort to keep his voice quiet and steady. “We’re going home now,” he says.

 

***

 

If anything, John’s concern only grows on the way home.

Waving the Yard off is hard enough, made possible only due to everyone’s distraction by the utter chaos of the crime scene. Even then, he gets a look from Greg as they go in search of a taxi that tells him the inspector didn’t buy a word of his “Sherlock’s fine, he just needs to rest” speech. But then, Sherlock is as far from fine as John’s ever seen him, so a convincing delivery would have been improbable.

The simple action of getting into the taxi and sitting down has Sherlock grimacing and clenching his jaw in obvious pain, and he spends the entirety of the ride in silence, putting as much physical distance between him and John as the back seat of the taxi would allow. John’s never seen him like that and is halfway to changing his mind and ordering the cabbie to head over to the nearest A&E.

As they pull up in front of 221 Baker Street Sherlock doesn’t waste a second, exiting the cab in a flash. By the time John pays and follows he’s already halfway up the stairs to the flat.

John stops him just as Sherlock is about to shut himself up in his bedroom. He keeps a firm hand on the door, preventing it from closing in his face. “Sherlock, stop. Unless you’ve grown eyes in the back of your head and another set of elbows, you’re not going to get this done by yourself. So just… let me have a look.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “I don’t _need_ your—“

“I swear to God that I will _shoot_ you if you finish that sentence,” John warns. Already bracing for an argument, he isn’t prepared for the weary apprehension that creeps into Sherlock’s face. Sighing, John softens his tone. “Look, I know that you hate… needing help. But you’re clearly in pain. Stop being stubborn and let—“

John reaches to slide the jacket off Sherlock’s shoulder but freezes when Sherlock flinches violently away. Letting his hand drop, John stares at Sherlock in stunned silence.

“I can’t…” Sherlock says, voice breaking halfway through the second syllable. His eyes are wide, momentarily panicked before he seems to compose himself again. He walks past John, toward the sitting room.

John follows after a beat, finds him by the window, looking out through a small gap in the curtains. He doesn’t approach Sherlock this time, stopping instead behind the armchair, rests both hands on its back. He can feel his heart hammering away in his chest, a mix of frustration, helplessness and genuine fear.

“Sherlock,” John says softly and has to pause, take a breath. It’s absurd, because he’s talking to his best friend, who’s hurt, and John is a doctor and should know how to handle situations like these, but the truth is he’s so out of his depth that he feels like he’s trying to navigate a minefield blindfolded.  “Please don’t take my head off for what I’m about to say.”

Sherlock has his back to him, but John can see his shoulders tense.

“If you were… raped, then we need to—“

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock says quickly.

John nods, lets out a breath. He doesn’t think Sherlock is lying to him, but he needs the information to keep coming.

“Alright. Can you please turn around?”

It takes a few seconds, but finally Sherlock turns. His expression is so miserable that John’s heart aches just from looking at him.

“I’m not enjoying this any more than you do, Sherlock, but this won’t go away until you let me help you. If it’s just the cuts on your back I can—“.

“The… Unilinx board,” Sherlock says hoarsely.

John frowns at him in confusion. “I thought you destroyed it,” he says, not seeing the relevance. 

“Melted beyond repair. But… I kept it in my pocket,” Sherlock tells him before looking away.

“All right,” John says, still not getting it.

“Gould. He... Um. Found it.”

John nods slowly, already seeing several scenarios in his mind’s eye of how that could have ended badly. “I’m guessing he wasn’t too happy with you.”

Sherlock shakes his head and seems to be bracing himself. “He got rather creative toward the end, and... Uh. Shoved it up my... Into…” he trails off.

Remarkably, John manages to keep utterly still as a thousand thoughts conveying various degrees of horror go through his mind simultaneously. He blinks once, twice, in an effort to keep a neutral expression. “Is it… still in there?” His voice is calm and steady, a far cry from what he’s feeling. 

Sherlock swallows and then nods.

John exhales a long breath through his nose. He closes his eyes, lets his head drop until his chin touches his sternum. A wave of fury washes over him, so intense he can feel the rush of blood in his ears, his face. The urge to find Gould, get his hands on him, rip him limb for limb until there’s nothing left but a bloody pulp is overwhelming.

He makes an effort to push it down, stow it away, because this isn’t the time, not with Sherlock standing there, looking awkward and wretched.

John lets go of the back of the chair and straightens up. “Right. Okay,” he says, sending Sherlock what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “That can’t be comfortable.” The doctor in him knows the responsible thing at this point would be to get Sherlock to hospital, but he can tell from Sherlock’s reactions thus far that the suggestion would not be welcome. John keeps it in mind as a last resort and tries to come up with alternatives. Finally he nods, mostly to himself. “Right. Don’t go anywhere.”

John goes up to his room, searches through the bottom drawer of his dresser and comes up with two bottles of pills. He can’t help Sherlock in his current skittish state, but perhaps there’s something to be done there. He shakes out two valium and two codeine pills, considers them briefly and then, deciding that the circumstances justify the generous approach, adds one more of each. 

Sherlock is still by the window when he comes back down and fetches a glass of water. “You’re going to take some painkillers and something to calm you down, and then we’ll get you sorted, all right?” John says as he hands him the pills and the water, trying not to crowd him.

Sherlock frowns down at the pills in his hand, looks as if he considers arguing. “Drugging your patients into cooperation…?”

John finds the hint of humor in the tone reassuring. “Works like a charm for my dentist.”

After a short hesitation Sherlock shrugs and swallows the pills.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything left of the sterile saline I bought you last week?”

Sherlock hands him back the empty glass. “One bag. Next to the instant noodles.”

“Where else?” John retorts wryly and goes in search of it.

He finds the saline, still sealed, and takes it out. He then proceeds to search the kitchen, bathroom and under his bed, collecting scattered items that, once upon a time, had constituted their first-aid kit. By the time he assembles everything he needs on the kitchen table Sherlock has gone from watching him nervously to slouching against the windowsill with a droopy expression.

“Why don’t you go to your room? Get in bed?” John offers.

“I’ll get blood on the sheets,” Sherlock says. He’s speaking slowly and deliberately but is not quite slurring yet.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” John assures. “Go on.”

Sherlock pushes himself off the window, swaying a bit, and then heads to his bedroom.

John carries in the first-aid supplies a bit later, finds Sherlock already in bed, lying on his front. Sherlock’s bloody clothes are piled in the corner of the room. He gets the first good look at Sherlock’s back as he turns on the overhead light, winces at the bloody mess of welts. “Pain any better now?” he asks.

Sherlock’s reply, muffled by the pillow, sounds vaguely affirmative. 

John sets the supplies on the bedside table and turns on the small lamp as well. He sits down on the edge of the bed, picks up a pair of latex gloves. “I’m just going to clean this up a bit,” he tells Sherlock. He unpacks the gauze, soaks it in saline and begins to dab gently at the long contusions marring Sherlock’s skin. The primary source of blood appears to be two long, deep welts just under Sherlock’s right scapula, still bleeding sluggishly. The rest are either shallow, or haven’t broken the skin at all, but the force behind the impact that created them is evident by the swelling underneath, already turning blue. John can only imagine how badly they must have hurt to acquire, has to force down another wave of fury.     

“How bad?” Sherlock mumbles at some point.

John opens his mouth to reply, a reassuring platitude on the tip of his tongue, but hesitates, remembers who he’s talking to. Sherlock is asking for data, not comfort. “Mostly bruises. Superficial welts. Will heal eventually,” he reports. “A couple of deeper ones. They’ll… scar.”

There’s no overt reaction from Sherlock to the news. John isn’t sure if that’s the valium or genuine indifference on Sherlock’s part. “Stitches?” Sherlock slurs.

John throws the wad of bloody gauze into a small waste bag and picks up the disinfectant. “I could tape them up, as long as you don’t overdo it for a few days. And you’ll take a course of antibiotics, to be safe.” He makes sure to phrase the latter in a way that doesn’t leave room for argument.   

Sherlock’s only reply is a quiet “Mmm.” After that he’s barely responsive, only hissing a few times as John disinfects the deeper welts and closes them with butterfly tapes. By the time John is done most of Sherlock’s back is covered by large, white bandages, and Sherlock is snoring softly and drooling onto his pillow.

John briefly thinks about not rousing him for the next part, but decides against it when he considers all the ways in which that might go badly. “Sherlock?” he says as he squeezes the sleeping man’s shoulder.

It takes a few attempts, but eventually Sherlock opens his eyes and mutters a weak “Wha…?”

“I’m going to get that thing out of you now, all right?”

Sherlock grunts and attempts to bury his face in the pillow.

John frowns, unsure of whether Sherlock is lucid enough to understand him. “Sherlock…”

“Yeah, okay,” comes the muffled reply.

John pulls on Sherlock’s hips, shifts him so that he’s on his side. He parts Sherlock’s buttocks gently, frowns when he sees dried blood. Not unexpected, but concerning nonetheless. He uses more gauze to clean the area, identifies two small tears around the anus. They’re not serious, but John knows it’ll be impossible to get the device out without some additional pain and bleeding.

He grabs the petroleum jelly from the table and coats his fingers. “Just relax, okay?” he tells Sherlock. It’s mostly out of habit and completely unnecessary; Sherlock’s body is so lax from the drugs that John doesn’t think he can tense up if he wants to.

Sherlock lets out a soft, pathetic whimper into the pillow as John’s fingers breach him, and John winces in sympathy.

“Sorry. You’ll be feeling a lot better in a minute,” he promises. The tips of his fingers brush against something solid and he carefully traces the edges of board. As small as it is, it’s the sharp edges John’s concerned about, knowing the kind of damage they can inflict on soft tissue. He manages to grab hold of one end between two fingers and tugs gently. He’s relived when the thing seems to move with little resistance.

Sherlock moans in pain as John eases it out, muttering something unintelligible into the pillow. Once it’s free John unceremoniously dumps the board into the waste bag. He carefully cleans away the fresh blood, makes sure there’s no additional damage. All in all, he thinks, that could have gone a lot worse.

“Right. That’s that,” he tells Sherlock brightly. “Doesn’t look like there’s any internal bleeding. The tearing should heal on its own.” He peels the gloves off, rubs Sherlock’s shoulder when he doesn’t get a response. “Still with me?”

Sherlock sniffs. “Cold.”

John sighs. He reaches for the duvet, pulls it over Sherlock, up to his neck. “Sleep. I’ll be right outside.”

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter momentarily, his face growing slack. John turns the light off and leaves him be.

 

***

 

The sound of footsteps on the stairs wakes John up the next morning. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes on the sofa, his head in an uncomfortable angle on the armrest. There’s a painful twinge in his neck as he shifts around to see Lestrade at the door.

“Sorry. Mrs. Hudson let me in,” Lestrade says with an apologetic smile.

“No, no. It’s fine.” John sits up gingerly, rolls his bad shoulder a couple of times. His arm has gone numb. “Everything alright?” he asks as he rubs his eyes tiredly.

“I should be asking you that. You and Sherlock pulled a vanishing act on me yesterday.”

John nods and clears his throat. “Yes. Sorry about that. You need a statement?” He checks his watch, finds that it’s almost ten. He should check on Sherlock; there’s no chance the sedatives have kept him down for this long.

“I would, if I had a case.”

John looks up at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Lestrade shrugs. “It’s out of my hands. All the evidence got shipped somewhere, including the suspects. I’ve been advised to let it go without a fuss.”  

“Mycroft.” John offers it as a one-word, all-encompassing explanation.

Lestrade looks resigned. “I’ve learned to pick my fights when it comes to him.”   

The sound of a door opening carries from down the hall and a moment later Sherlock breezes into the sitting room, his dressing gown billowing around him. “Inspector. Why are you here?” he asks tersely as he walks past Lestrade and to a pile of large books by the fireplace. He ignores John completely.

Lestrade frowns. “Found something of yours at the crime scene,” he says.

“I wasn’t aware the Yard was operating a door-to-door delivery service,” Sherlock remarks snidely, flipping through the volumes with impatient movements.

Lestrade sends John a miffed look but John can only shake his head. While Greg never seems to expect pleasantries from Sherlock, the unprovoked hostility toward the inspector is unusual. Apparently last night’s events have put Sherlock in a foul enough mood that he’s ready to take it out on anyone in his vicinity.

Sherlock picks up a large book, turns to Lestrade and holds his hand out expectantly. Lestrade raises an eyebrow, but finally takes Sherlock’s mobile phone out of his pocket and hands it over. Sherlock takes it wordlessly and promptly turns away.

“You’re welcome!” Lestrade calls after his retreating back. A moment later Sherlock’s bedroom door slams shut. Lestrade turns back to John with a bemused expression. “What crawled up _his_ arse and died?”

John closes his eyes and has to count to ten in order to resist saying something entirely inappropriate.

 

***

 

John’s patience is stretched to its limits over the next two days. He’s used to dealing with Sherlock’s moods but the sheer amount of scathing remarks thrown his way for no apparent reason is unprecedented.

When he’s not engaged in verbally assaulting John, Sherlock appears to be using an organic chemistry textbook as a security blanket and John is more than happy to leave him to it. The respite is usually over whenever John brings over a plate of food and Sherlock’s antibiotics, but since both are eventually consumed rather than being flung at his head, John considers it a worthwhile endurance. 

Sherlock’s reaction, when John offers to take a look at his back to make sure everything is healing as it should, is to clarify rather bluntly that John is not his keeper, that he’s more than capable of taking care of himself, and that John’s presence has become a nuisance that prevents Sherlock from stringing a coherent thought together. He finishes off by suggesting that John go off to pester Mrs. Hudson and then shuts himself in his room for the next five hours. 

John doesn’t offer again after that.  

The thing is, John _gets_ it. Not the personal attacks as much as Sherlock’s need to reassert control over his environment. The years of living with Sherlock have taught him how important it is to the detective to be on top of things. He knows that for Sherlock, sustaining physical harm is inconsequential compared to the insult of being perceived as weak or as a victim. John is paying the price now, for having witnessed him in such a state.

The solution, such as it is, arrives on the third day, in a three-piece suit and carrying an umbrella.

“John,” Mycroft greets with his usual politeness as he lets himself into the flat.

John nods from the kitchen and continues making tea. He doesn’t add another cup; Mycroft rarely stays long enough for that.

He’s surprised that it’s taken Mycroft this long to pay them a visit; Mycroft’s men had been first on the scene three days ago, which means he must have gotten some kind of a report and has at least a vague idea as to what his brother had been through. Then again, staying away may have just been Mycroft’s idea of a courtesy. 

On the sofa, Sherlock makes a good effort of ignoring his brother’s arrival, his nose still stuck in the large textbook. Mycroft doesn’t appear discouraged by the dismissal and settles in John’s favorite armchair.

“There’s a matter I’m working on that might benefit from your input,” Mycroft tells Sherlock neutrally.

“I’m busy. Go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock retorts without looking up.

“Yes, I can see how busy you are. I assure you this takes precedence.” When Sherlock keeps ignoring him, Mycroft sighs in annoyance. “You’ve read this book cover to cover three times before you sixteenth birthday, Sherlock. I’m certain there are no further layers of subtext to uncover. Now, if you’re quite done _licking your wounds_ , you might be interested to learn that a certain interrogation I’m conducting has come to an impasse.”

Tea forgotten for the moment, John comes to stand at the divider. He looks on as Sherlock slowly closes the book.

“Interrogation,” Sherlock echoes, staring at his brother intently.

Mycroft arches an eyebrow and a silent communication passes between the two. Sherlock nods to himself, appears to be considering something. John is used to these two communicating on a level that’s beyond the comprehension of the mere mortals surrounding them. It’s why he’s so surprised to realize that he understands exactly what Mycroft is offering.

“How much of an input would I be allowed to… contribute?” Sherlock asks casually.

“As much as you see fit. Naturally the… termination of the interrogation would be at your discretion.” Mycroft’s benign tone sends a chill down John’s spine.

Sherlock stands up abruptly. “I’ll get dressed then, shall I?”

“No,” John says.

Both men turn to him in surprise, as if they’ve forgotten he was there.

“Stay out of this, John,” Sherlock says coldly.

John shakes his head at him. “Sherlock, you don’t want this… I know you’re angry, but this won’t make you feel any better—“

“Oh, I beg to differ.”

“If you just—“

“This is none of your business!”  Sherlock hisses. He walks past John and into his room.

John turns to Mycroft, who’s giving him a calculating look. “Is this your idea of a gift?” he asks Mycroft after several moments of silence.

“I thought you of all people would approve,” Mycroft says. “Tell me, John, had you had Raul Gould here, at your mercy, three nights ago, what would you have done?”

John thins his lips and remains silent, but it’s clear from Mycroft’s subtle smirk that his expression is telling enough.

“Don’t you think my brother deserves the same opportunity? To work off some of his… frustration?” The word ‘revenge’ is never actually said, but it hangs between them nonetheless.

“You think you’re doing him a favor, but nothing about this is going to be _therapeutic_ ,” John insists. “Sherlock isn’t like that. He’s not like you.” _Don’t turn him into you_ , is what he really means.

Mycroft stands up, looks at John as if he can see right through him. John can’t remember ever hating the man as much as he does now. “Perhaps you don’t know Sherlock as well as you think you do,” Mycroft says.

John never gets an opportunity to reply. Sherlock returns at that moment, coat already on, and he and Mycroft leave without another word.

 

***

 

It’s nighttime when Sherlock returns. John has been staring at a tennis match, too distracted to follow the score. He turns the telly off as Sherlock enters.

Sherlock removes his scarf and coat, drapes them over a kitchen chair without looking at John. His face is pale, drawn – a far cry from how a person who’s just finished venting all his frustrations would look like, John can’t help thinking.

“What happened?” John asks.  

Sherlock walks to the window and stands there, staring outside silently.

John gets up, comes closer. Standing just behind Sherlock he gets a whiff of cigarette smoke, knows that it can’t mean anything good. There was no call from Mycroft this time, with a suggestion that John search the flat for illegal substances, but that’s not an assurance one way or the other.

Finally, Sherlock breaks the silence. “I had Mycroft turn Gould over to Lestrade.”

John exhales in a rush, a mix of surprise and relief. “That’s good.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asks with an edge to his voice. “I went in there… I was prepared to kill him. Hurt him, then kill him.”

“I don’t believe that,” John says quietly. “Not really.” Sherlock may have been hurting, may have been seething, but John knows it takes more than that to kill someone in cold blood.

His calm seems to only aggravate Sherlock further. “He deserved it!” Sherlock hisses, turning around and then walking past John.

“No disagreement there. That’s not the point.”

Sherlock glares at him, starts pacing the room. “The opportunity was there. Mycroft ensured there’d be no fallout. It should have felt good. _Liberating_.”

John shakes his head. “No. Not this. If you’d killed him… it would have stayed with you. For the rest of your life. Turning him over was the right thing to do – you’ll see it sooner or later.”

Sherlock huffs. “Don’t patronize me! It’s so easy for you to stand there and offer meaningless platitudes. You don’t know what I…”  He cuts himself off, runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

John doesn’t think he has the words to express how far from easy it is, seeing Sherlock in this state. Sherlock’s pacing brings him back to the window and John sends out a hesitant hand, intending to lay it on Sherlock’s arm. “Look,” he starts, but his gesture is intercepted, Sherlock grabbing his wrist in a swift move.

John flinches at the iron grip, fingers curling in from the pressure, but he doesn’t draw back.

Sherlock’s eyes bore into him – fraught and angry, before his gaze shifts to their point of contact where Sherlock’s long fingers dig into his flesh. Something changes then, in Sherlock’s stance, the clench of his jaw. He relaxes his grip slightly and appears momentarily flustered. “I…” he says, trails off. Sherlock tries to pull back but John turns his palm up, takes Sherlock’s hand in his and squeezes gently.

“It’s alright,” John says when Sherlock looks back up at him tensely. It’s not something they do – holding hands. Not unless it involves handcuffs and a lot of running, at any rate. But John is having trouble articulating the message across using mere words, so he’s giving it a shot, rubbing his thumb slowly across Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock is staring at him in an assessing way and John thinks that this would be an appropriate time to make another attempt at verbal communication, but his chance is snatched away when Sherlock abruptly leans forward and kisses him.

The flurry of movements causes momentary confusion, John’s brain instinctively bracing for an attack before registering the warm press of lips against lips. He stiffens, eyes widening, heart racing, fleetingly suspended between leaning in, pulling away and pushing Sherlock off. A repeating loop of _what…?_ and _Why…?_ and _Huh?!_ keeps rushing through his mind.

Then Sherlock withdraws, turns away just as abruptly, muttering a string of expletives.  

John exhales in a rush. “Sherlock…”

“No, don’t.” Sherlock is already across the room, his back to John. He shakes his head vigorously. “Delete that.”

John lets out a startled huff of laughter, more shock than actual amusement. “I don’t work like that.”

Sherlock faces him, his expression pained. “That was a momentary neurochemical _lapse_. Reward circuits in the brain latching on to the closest available positive reinforcement in response to continuous negative input.”

There’s unmistakable apprehension in Sherlock’s eyes, and while John is still unsure as to what the fuck has just happened here, he knows he doesn’t want Sherlock frantically backpedaling and looking like that because of _him_.

“Positive reinforcement,” he echoes, trying not to sound as weirded out as he feels. “Fine. That’s… um. Fine.” As he says it he realizes it’s true – Sherlock kissing him is unexpected, it’s confusing, but it’s not actually off-putting.    

“It won’t happen again,” Sherlock adds quickly. He sends John a weary look, rubs the back of his head awkwardly. “I’d understand if you felt the need to go shout a proclamation of your heterosexuality from the rooftops now.”

John fights back a smile. “I’d shout it on national television if I thought it would make any difference.” He’d given up on this line of argument some time ago, partly because it had proved futile, but more so because after Sherlock’s recent return from the dead John had largely stopped caring about other people’s view on the matter. 

Sherlock sighs, looks away. “I should—“ He gestures vaguely toward his bedroom.

“Don’t,” John blurts, instinct compelling him to stop Sherlock from retreating. He knows his flatmate well enough by now to recognize the trouble that’s implied by something as mundane as the purchase of cigarettes, but this understanding of Sherlock’s psyche hasn’t proved useful in preventing what often comes next. “You’re… um. Going to get your positive reinforcement another way?” 

Sherlock doesn’t insult him by pretending he doesn’t know what John means. “I have it under control.”

Feeling ridiculous having this conversation from the other side of the room, John goes to him. “It’s what I’m worried about. Sherlock…” He has to grab Sherlock’s arm to keep him from turning away.

“It’s a neurochemical problem, John. Using a chemical to resolve it is the logical solution.”

“It’s not logical. Or maybe to you it is, but it’s not _good_. It’s never good, and it’s especially not good as an alternative to… ah. Human touch.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “They both narrow down to chemistry in the end. Taking the indirect route is messy. Inefficient. It’s not something I do.”

John nods. “I know. I know it’s… not your area, but you should--” he licks his lips, hesitating, suddenly feeling wrong-footed.

“You think I should make an exception?” Sherlock asks slowly, raising an eyebrow.

John sighs and lets go of Sherlock’s arm. “Maybe, yes.” He realizes a moment too late that his side of this exchange cannot be interpreted as anything other than an offer. He hadn’t intended on phrasing it like one, but now that it’s out there John doesn’t want to take it back.

Sherlock leans in until there’s barely an inch between their faces. “John, your exclusive devotion to the opposite sex over the past several years did not go unnoticed. Certainly not by me.”

John swallows reflexively as his breathing picks up. “I’ve been making exceptions for you since day one. Why stop now?”

Sherlock studies him for a long moment, contemplative. “The experience is unlikely to meet your expectations.”

“To have expectations I’d need to have thought this through, which I really haven’t, so there’s nothing to worry about.” The utter ridiculousness of that statement creeps up on him unexpectedly. Sherlock’s mouth twitches, his eyes mirroring the humour John’s feeling. John huffs. “Kiss me already, you berk, before I change my—mmph.”  

The soft lips pressing against John’s are less of a shock this time around. He leans into it, into Sherlock, hands coming up to brace against Sherlock’s sides as he tilts his head slightly, fits their mouths together at a better angle. A detached part of his mind catalogues firm planes instead of soft curves, a hint of stubble under his lips instead of smooth, soft skin. The differences are all noted, but none promote a sense of wrongness.

Sherlock’s hands tentatively come to rest at his waist, holding on without applying actual pressure. There’s a surprised puff of air when John swipes his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock parts his lips in response, mimics the gesture experimentally. He tastes like smoke and bergamot and mint and John wants more, deepens the kiss further. A full-body shudder goes through Sherlock. He lets out a desperate whimper before breaking away.

“Sorry,” John says breathlessly. “Too much?” He’d forgotten for a moment, overcome by sensation, that while he himself is treading some unfamiliar ground here, it’s very possible that Sherlock has never engaged in any type of physical relations in his life.

Sherlock shakes his head, walks him backwards. “Down.”

The back of John’s legs hit the sofa and he sinks down into it, Sherlock following, climbing over him and pushing him to lay back. There’s a frown line between Sherlock’s eyebrows as he lowers himself on top of John, a mix of concentration and determination as he bends his head and takes John’s lips again. John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as they kiss, feels Sherlock’s answering sigh against his mouth.

Sherlock is braced on knees and elbows, one knee between John’s legs, the other between John and the back of the sofa. John reaches to wrap an arm around his midsection, intending on pulling Sherlock down to lay against him, but stops before making contact, remembering Sherlock’s bruised back. He moves lower instead, lays his hand on Sherlock’s buttocks, hoping the gesture won’t be interpreted as overly-suggestive.

At the gentle pressure Sherlock allows his hips to settle down, but he stiffens as the hard length of his erection presses into John’s hip. He makes a small, embarrassed sound, pulls back from the kiss and looks at John uncertainly.  

“It’s okay,” John breathes. “Whatever you need, yeah?”

There’s a moment of hesitation but then Sherlock closes his eyes, relaxes back down. John uses the hand cradling the back of Sherlock’s head to bring their mouths together again, feels Sherlock melting against him, parting his lips readily for John’s tongue. The heat of Sherlock’s cock burns into him even through layers of clothes and under the palm of his hand Sherlock’s gluteal muscles contract and relax rhythmically as his hips make tiny, almost imperceptible movements against his side.

“Good?” John asks breathily when Sherlock lets a soft moan escape.

Sherlock nods, lost in sensation, breaths coming fast and shallow.

John’s body is apparently still confused by the novelty of the situation and he isn’t quite hard yet. He’s lived with Sherlock for so long with the firm understanding that their relationship, as close as it may have become, was neither romantic nor sexual, that it’s difficult to let go of that block completely. At the moment John is thankful for the lack of distraction, allowing him to fully appreciate the sight and sensation of Sherlock coming apart on top of him without the urgent need to get off. He moves his hand from Sherlock’s rear to his front, traces the edge of Sherlock’s waistband. “I could—“

“—don’t,” Sherlock gasps. He reaches down and replaces John’s hand in its former location. “Just. This.”

“Right. Okay. Sorr--”

Sherlock kisses the apology off his lips, lets his tongue delve into John’s mouth. John is drowning in him – his smell, his taste, the feel of his cock rubbing off against John’s hip.  He lets his nails scratch slightly against Sherlock’s scalp and Sherlock arches into the touch, pushes his head into John’s hand, rubs his cheek against John’s wrist. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his gaze unfocused, making him look drunk. Chemistry, John remembers. It all narrows down to it in the end and Sherlock is looking like his brain is flooded by all the right kind of neurotransmitters.

Sherlock moans brokenly and hides his face against John’s chest. John can feel him panting, mouth slightly open against John’s sternum, hot breaths creating a damp patch on John’s t-shirt. The small movements of his hips grow frantic, less coordinated. John’s cock gives a decidedly interested twitch at the sensual picture Sherlock presents but John ignores it, keeps his focus on the body straining above him.

Sherlock is completely silent when he comes. His hands clench in the sofa cushions and his breathing turns ragged as his body tenses up. Then he shudders once, twice, and John feels an unmistakable pulse of heat where Sherlock’s cock is trapped between them. Sherlock exhales in a rush, his body twitching with aftershocks as it gradually grows lax and heavy on top of John. John kisses the top of his head, continues to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he catches his breath.

“All right?”   

Sherlock’s reply is a quiet, content “Mmmm.”

They stay like that for a couple of minutes, John basking in warmth and a sense of fulfillment he can’t quite explain. He’d never been one to confuse physical intimacy with love, and where Sherlock is concerned he’d acknowledged the latter long ago, but the opportunity to express this sentiment through touch is apparently turning him into an emotional mess. Sherlock is likely to call him on it sooner or later, but for now John makes no attempt to over-examine or curtail it.          

After a while, when John’s leg is beginning to protest at the lack of adequate blood flow, Sherlock finally pulls away, sits up on the edge of the sofa. “Messy,” he mutters, grimacing at the front of his trousers.

John huffs in amusement. “Try it without clothes on next time.” He wonders, briefly, if it’s too presumptuous of him to talk about a next time, but Sherlock doesn’t challenge it. He looks calmer now, John is pleased to note, none of his previous agitation lingering. He nudges Sherlock’s leg. “Go wash up.”

Sherlock nods, clears his throat, face turning somewhat somber. “You should… hang up my coat.”

It takes a couple of seconds for John to catch up. He nods. “Yeah, of course.”

He waits until Sherlock disappears into the bathroom and he hears the shower running before getting up and retrieving the coat from the kitchen. He fishes a pack of Marlboros out of the outer pocket, still mostly full. Deciding to pick his fights, John leaves it in the desk drawer where Sherlock keeps his nicotine patches. The cigarettes are the least of his concerns at the moment.    

The small, glass object he’s after eventually turns up in a hidden inner pocket of the coat. John sighs as he looks at the label. While it’s a relief to learn that Sherlock hadn’t been desperate enough to resort to the purchase of street drugs, John prefers not to think about how he’d gotten his hands on an ampule of hydromorphone.

Over the kitchen sink he breaks the cap, empties the solution into the drain. He then rinses the ampule and dumps it in the bin. This won’t be the last time this happens, John knows. He’s resigned himself some time ago to Sherlock’s imprudent choices during moments of weakness. For tonight, at least, they’ve managed to avert the fallout.   

Sherlock comes out of the bath as John finishes hanging the coat up in his wardrobe. He’s shirtless, wearing grey pajama bottoms, toweling his hair with one hand and texting with the other. “Lestrade just texted. Double homicide in Holloway.”

John sends him an incredulous look. “You showered with your phone?”

That earns him an eye-roll. “Irrelevant.” Sherlock drops the towel on the bed and goes to the dresser in search of clothes. “The bodies are still fresh, meaning we have an hour at best before Anderson mucks up the—“ He pauses as he catches John staring.

Sherlock’s back looks considerably better than it did three days ago – the welts scabbed over, bruises fading into greens and yellows, but the physical reminder of it triggers the same wave of anger and over-protectiveness John had experienced before.

“John…”

John looks away, clears his throat. “I’ll go get dressed.”

Sherlock blocks his path. “John, I’m _fine_. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.” He doesn’t sound as if he’s trying to reassure John. If anything, he sounds exasperated. When Sherlock steps even further into his personal space, John has no choice but to look back up, meet his gaze. “I need it to be _over_ ,” Sherlock adds sharply. “And that won’t happen until you stop feeling sorry for me! I… don’t…” The words trail off abruptly, and John gets to see the moment of realization in Sherlock’s eyes.

“This isn’t pity, Sherlock,” he clarifies. It’s entirely unnecessary – no one reads him better than Sherlock and John can tell his composure is frayed enough that everything he’s feeling must be laid bare on his face. A part of him is expecting an expression of disdain, a condescending “Sentiment” thrown his way, followed by Sherlock turning away, but it doesn’t happen.

Sherlock blinks once, and then his face softens.     

“You can’t ask me not to care,” John adds quietly.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I won’t.” He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but seems to reconsider, purses his lips instead.  

John brings a hand up to rest against Sherlock’s chest, feels warm skin under his fingertips, Sherlock’s steady heartbeats. “You’re fine,” he says, and this time it _is_ a reassurance – for him as well as Sherlock.

Sherlock nods, brings his own hand to rest over John’s. “Better than fine.”

For once, Sherlock’s face is entirely unguarded. John finds understanding there, as well as reciprocation. Something eases in his chest, an aura of clarity making it suddenly easier for his lungs to expand.

“So now what?” John asks.

“Now we go catch a murderer. Now things go back to normal.” Sherlock tilts his head. “Well. More or less normal.”

“More or less?”

Sherlock leans down, brushes a chaste kiss against John’s lips. “More or less.”

“Ah.” John’s already begun to brace himself for the possibility of Sherlock treating this night as a one off, of waking up tomorrow and carrying on as if nothing has changed, but maybe he should have given Sherlock more credit. “More exceptions then?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curves up. “As many as we deem prudent.”

Trust Sherlock to find a middle ground – a way for them to maintain the status quo without having to give up _this_ – John still doesn't have a name for this new incarnation of their relationship, buy it appears he’ll get to discover what's hiding at the bottom of the rabbit hole. 

John smiles. “I can live with that.” 

 

 


End file.
